LUCIAN "L" VITALE'S POINT OF VIEW
The air in the high-ceilinged room sits heavy on my lungs-thick with cigar smoke that's been aging in wood and plaster for decades, and a fury so sharp you could cut it with a blade. Pakhan sits at the far end of the mahogany table, his hands folded flat on the polished surface. Every line in his face was carved there by choice: power earned, blood spilled, years stacked like bricks between him and mercy.
We stand before him-me, Ace, Kieran. Our faces are smooth as river stone, emotion locked so deep inside it might as well be buried. After ten years in the Bratva, we learned this posture young: impassive, unreadable, even when rage burns hot enough to boil blood in our veins. They built us to be tools. Machines that don't ask questions.
Four years ago, I broke every rule in the book.
